


cut to the feeling

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: It starts with a phone call on Mitch’s day off.“Guitarist no-showed for a studio session,” his roommate Ryan says. “Told them you could fill in, if you’re up for it."(or, in which i cram a slow burn fic into 7k)





	cut to the feeling

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this happened. i usually steer clear of canon, so for disclaimer's sake: don't own, didn't happen, all complete lies despite my attempt at accurate timelines (hint: not that accurate). thank you to nich0lasmatthews and songsfrombus1 for looking over an earlier draft of this. massive, massive thank you ferryboatpeak whose research and dedication to hitch shaped this fic, and for the incredible beta. any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> title from the song of the same name by carly rae jepsen.

It starts with a phone call on Mitch’s day off.

“Guitarist no-showed for a studio session,” his roommate Ryan says. “Told them you could fill in, if you’re up for it. They’re paying, like, top dollar, bro.”

“Just for today?” he asks, tucking his hair behind his ear. Feels a bit greasy, which means it’s a hat day.

Ryan laughs, which isn’t actually an answer. “Believe me, man, short-term gig or not, this is one for your resume.”

Mitch has never heard of the kid, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything, since most of Mitch’s favorite musicians are either already dead or have one foot in the grave. He’s recording his first album, Ryan explains while Mitch unpacks his gear, just working on laying down some preliminary tracks. It’s a cushy studio for a debut album, but then, maybe that’s just LA. Mitch recorded his band’s demo in his living room. Looking around at the expensive equipment Ryan gets to play with every day, he thinks maybe he gets why it never got much traction.

He plugs in his favorite guitar, testing the strings even though he tuned it just last night. From there it’s easy to segue into a few chords to get the worst of his nerves out, his fingers moving easily over the frets until his head is empty except for the music.

The song they’re working on isn’t half bad. It’s got a rockier sound to it with a chorus that Mitch can’t quite puzzle out, but it’s easy enough to pick up the melody, throw in a few riffs for good measure.

When Mitch looks up, the kid -- Harry -- is looking right back at him with this oddly intense stare. He’s not quite smiling, mouth just barely quirked at the corner, but his cheek is dimpled all the same. Mitch drops his gaze, lets the brim of his hat cover his eyes.

As the last note fades out, Mitch’s fingers stilling on the guitar, Harry climbs to his feet, clapping loudly. It doesn’t even seem mocking, but Mitch doesn’t really know him well enough to say for sure.

“That was _sick_ , mate,” Harry says. “You fucking smashed it.”

Mitch rubs his hand over the back of his neck, already pricked with sweat underneath his thick hair. “Uh, thanks.” And then, because Harry’s looking at him expectantly, “Should we bring some drums in on this?”

Harry’s smile widens, and he readjusts the sunglasses in his hair, pushing the long strands back from his face. “You play drums too?”

“Well, I’m a drummer,” Mitch says with a self-conscious shrug.

Harry nudges his producer and mumbles something Mitch can’t quite catch, jaw working around a piece of gum. “Yeah,” he says more audibly, with a smile that could sell out arenas. “Let’s hear what you’ve got on the drums.”

-

The next day, Mitch has to work. A studio session pays more than the pizza shop, but he needs reliable income. He can’t afford to lose this job without a sure thing lined up to take its place.

Ryan keeps texting him updates from the studio and Mitch’s phone buzzes all day. He doesn’t get a chance to read them until his break, pushing soggy breadsticks around his plate and wishing he had enough time to get Chinese instead.

_Not the same without you here bro. Nobody shreds like you_

_Harry thinks so too_

_When’s ur next off day? Harry wants you back_

Mitch sips at his coke. He reads and rereads the texts until his break is over, switching his phone to silent before he slips it back into his pocket.

 _Could make it for a few hours tomorrow morning_ he finally replies after work, squinting at his phone in the too-bright sunlight just outside the shop.

If he knew then what he was signing up for, he’s still not sure he would’ve made a different choice.

-

It sort of becomes a thing. Mitch squeezes in writing sessions with Harry and his team between shifts, going through twice as much soap as usual to scrub off the odor of grease and cheese that always clings to his skin after work, because Harry’s not big on personal space and Mitch isn’t big on enforcing limits.

Harry doesn’t seem to care that Mitch’s arms are wrapped around a bulky guitar. He’ll squeeze onto the couch next to him anyway, curling into Mitch’s side and hooking his chin over Mitch’s shoulder like an overgrown housecat.

“What do you think?” Harry will ask.

If Mitch turned his head, his nose would brush Harry’s cheek. He keeps his gaze locked onto his guitar, watching his fingers instead.

“I think it sounds good,” he says truthfully. “Definitely a contender for the album.”

Harry takes a deep breath, his entire body pressing tightly against Mitch’s for a heartstopping moment before he releases it in a giant sigh.

“It’s definitely not what people will expect from you,” Harry’s manager adds. Harry likes to cling to him too, when he’s not harassing Mitch. Nobody ever seems to say no to him.

“Jeffrey,” Harry whines. He flops over onto the couch, and somehow his leg ends up hooking over Mitch’s thigh. Mitch readjusts his grip on the guitar, shifting it out of the way of Harry’s flailing limbs. “I’m being crushed. I don’t like this _pressure_.”

“You’re crushing Mitch,” Jeffrey corrects. “And you’re used to pressure.”

“It’s _different_ ,” Harry argues, making sad eyes at Jeffrey through his mane of hair. Mitch knows a bit more about Harry thanks to a few carefully staged, offhand-sounding questions to Ryan. It’s hard to reconcile the facts he’s learned about Harry’s popstar past with the grungy wannabe rockstar sprawled over him.

Mitch awkwardly pats Harry’s thigh in sympathy and Harry tilts his head until he can catch Mitch’s eye. His smile makes Mitch’s stomach flip in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

Mitch clears his throat. “Let’s play it through again. See how we all feel about it after another listen.”

Harry sits up, pushing his hair back from his face as he untangles himself from Mitch. He’s somehow managed to keep his gum in his mouth despite all the flopping. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees, pressing his knee against Mitch’s.

-

Barely a few weeks later, Harry drops a bombshell.

“You’re going to go film a movie?” Mitch repeats. He doesn’t mean to sound so dubious.

“With fucking _Christopher Nolan_?” Ryan adds, even more incredulously.

Harry shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Just for a few months. Need to get out of my head for a bit, I think.”

That sets Ryan off laughing. “You picked one hell of a distraction, bro,” he says, but not unkindly.

“What kind of movie?” Mitch asks, still trying to wrap his head around it. It’s LA; it shouldn’t be surprising that Harry’s dabbling in acting. Ryan’s tone makes him think that the Christopher Nolan thing might be a bigger deal, but it’s yet another thing Mitch doesn’t have a frame of reference for. You have to audition for Christopher Nolan movies, Mitch thinks. Probably months and months in advance.

“Oh, um. Like, a war movie?” Harry says, twisting a strand of hair around his finger. “Um, WWII, specifically. Most of the filming’s gonna be on location over in Europe, so.”

So Mitch will have to hold onto the two weeks notice he’s been silently drafting in his head for a little while longer. Until -- _if_ \-- Harry comes back, or another opportunity comes along.

He tries not to think about how this one felt like once in a lifetime.

-

They go out for drinks the night before Harry’s set to fly out, at some place with an outrageous cover fee and a private room that’s better stocked than most of the bars Mitch frequents. Nobody says anything about it, so Mitch doesn’t either.

He nurses his Pabsts all night, picking at the label on the bottle with his thumbnail. When there’s nothing left in it but room-temperature backwash, he catches Ryan’s eye across the table and tips his head towards the door, pantomiming taking a drag.

He’s barely got his cigarette lit, back pressed to the sun-warm brick outside the bar, when Harry joins him, standing close enough that their shoulders bump.

“You could get lung cancer, you know,” he says.

Mitch turns his face, blowing his smoke away from Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry adds. “I’m not judging your lifestyle choices.”

Mitch sucks in another lungful of smoke, the cherry glowing red in the dusky twilight. Harry shoves his hair back from his face, pinning it into place with his sunglasses.

“You know,” he says, and Mitch can’t tell if he’s just trying to fill the silence or if he’s got something of substance to say. “When I told my family I was doing the movie, my step-dad asked me who I was playing, if I was like, waving off the soldiers.”

“Are you?” Mitch asks, and Harry laughs, just like Mitch was hoping he would.

“No! I have a real part, I swear.” He pauses, then says, “Well, I mean. I hope? Dunno. It’s a bit outside my comfort zone, if I’m being honest.”

Mitch wasn’t aware that Harry’s comfort zone had boundaries. It’s certainly much larger than Mitch’s. He takes another careful drag, filling his lungs, shoulder still pressed tight to Harry’s. “I think you’ll do just fine,” he says after he exhales.

Harry smiles, small and close-lipped, and doesn’t say anything else. They stand there in silence until Mitch’s cigarette burns down to the filter, not a star in sight in the smoggy LA sky.

-

They’re friends now, Mitch thinks, but not quite driving-to-the-airport level of friends. It’s probably better that way.

Mitch would feel too much like someone waving a soldier off, wondering in the back of his mind if he’ll ever see them again.

-

The money from the studio sessions dries up too quickly, and Mitch picks up more shifts at the pizza shop to cover his share of the rent and bills, doubting his decision to pack up and move to LA for the thousandth time. He can’t even look at a breadstick without feeling nauseous, but he can eat as many as he likes for free while he’s working, so he swallows them down anyway.

“You hear anything about Harry?” he asks Ryan one night a few months later, when the heat feels as heavy as a blanket and the window A/C unit he bought at a thrift store is making more noise than cold air. It’s hot everywhere; in their apartment, in the divebars they’ve managed a few gigs at, in the kitchen at the shop that always smells like burnt cheese and grease.

“Still on set, as far as I know. I think they’re filming at some studio here, though? For like, close-ups and shit.”

“Oh,” Mitch says with hopefully more nonchalance than he feels.

Ryan doesn’t look away from his computer screen, a pair of headphones around his neck and lip bitten in concentration. “Jeff wants us on standby, though, for when he gets back. Hopefully he’ll be ready to hit the ground running with the album.”

“Yeah, okay.” Mitch nods, forcing his head to still when he starts to feel like a bobblehead stuck to a dashboard. “Sounds good.”

It’s not until later that Mitch realizes that he never even questioned putting his life on hold for Harry.

Not like he had a lot of other opportunities knocking, anyway.

-

The second time around, Mitch is expecting the call, but not the way his stomach swoops when he sees Harry for the first time in -- what, four, five months?

“Mitch!” Harry crows, pulling him in for a hug. He smells the same, like expensive cologne and inexplicable vanilla, and he might even be wearing the same gaudy Hawaiian shirt as he was the last time Mitch stood face to face with him.

But-- “Your hair, man. What happened?”

Ducking his head, Harry runs a hand through the short strands, pushing it back from his face. “Different, right? Still throws me sometimes when I look in the mirror.”

“It--” Mitch clears his throat. “Looks great, man. Hardly recognized you.”

Harry reaches out, tugs gently on a strand of Mitch’s hair. With that trademark grin, he says, “You look exactly the same. Making me jealous with these long locks.”

“Says the guy who just finished filming a Christopher Nolan movie.” Mitch looked him up on Ryan’s laptop. He directed the newest Batman films. Even Mitch has heard of Batman, though he prefers the classics.  

Harry’s cheeks look a bit pink, but it’s probably just the LA sun. “You ready to get back into the studio? I’m, like, _itching_ to write. Got too many ideas bouncin’ around in my head, you know? Feel like I’m gonna burst if I don’t get them out.”

Mitch allows himself a small smile. “Got an off day tomorrow. Can’t wait to start.”

-

It’s Harry’s idea, but it’s Jeff Bhasker’s execution.

“Mitch,” Harry says, dropping down onto the couch and half of Mitch’s lap, incidentally. It’s like nothing has changed, other than Harry’s haircut and the weather. “I hope you have a passport.”

“I don’t,” Mitch says, lifting his arm so Harry can wriggle underneath.

“Well, get one,” Harry tells him, still wriggling. He talked Mitch’s ear off about all the swimming he had to do for the movie, but it doesn’t seem to have burned through much of his energy at all. “We’re going to _Jamaica_.”

Mitch tilts his chin down to catch Harry’s eye. “Are we?”

“I need you,” Harry says. “Jeff knows about this studio, in Jamaica?”

Slowly, Mitch nods. “Yeah, you mentioned.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s -- he said it’s kind of isolated, right on the coast. We could just like -- immerse ourselves in the music, no distractions.” Harry’s getting excited now, the words tumbling out faster than normal, which still only puts him at an average person’s talking speed. “Just completely focused on the music, the album, away from everything else. Sounds incredible, right?”

It does. Mitch wants it with a sudden ferocity that takes him by surprise, clenching hard in his chest.

More quietly, Harry adds, “Don’t think I can do it without you, man.”

Mitch counts to five, then ten. It’s like stepping off a cliff, a plunge there’s no turning back from. An assistant manager position opened up at the shop, and Mitch’s manager asked him if he’d consider applying. Said he had leadership qualities, could work his way up the chain if he kept up the hard work.

It’d be a bigger paycheck. A steady paycheck.

But Mitch didn’t move two thousand miles from Ohio to LA to climb the corporate ladder at a fucking pizza shop.

He sucks in a deep breath, and takes a leap of faith. “Guess the shop will need to find a new dishwasher.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Harry pumps a fist into the air, as if there was ever a chance that Mitch would say no.

-

Harry’s no distraction theory has some merit, because within the first two weeks of landing in Jamaica, they’ve got six songs written.

“We should celebrate,” Harry decides, which apparently means getting smashed and pulling some girl’s dress over his head. The poolside toast he gives is heartfelt, if inelegant, and Mitch isn’t the only one who winces when Harry launches himself into the water afterwards with a loud splash.

He surfaces seconds later, shaking his head like a dog. His hungry eyes latch onto Mitch first, and he swims to the edge of the pool with sloppy strokes. “Mitch! Get in the pool!”

“Not that drunk, man,” Mitch tells him, edging backwards a step or four. Harry tries to hoist himself over the side of the pool, but he’s laughing too hard to accomplish more than ineffective flopping.

“Mitch,” he whines, dragging out the vowel sound. “Save me.”

“From what?”

Arms hooked over the edge of the pool and hair plastered to his head, Harry smiles that slow smile of his, the sharp lines of his cheekbones catching in the dim patio light. He should look ridiculous. He looks untouchable. “I dunno. Myself?”

Ryan snorts into his beer. “Deep, bro.” Directing his next words to Mitch as he sets his bottle down on the table, he adds, “Help me pull him out. None of us gets paid if we let the little rockstar drown.”

“Heyyy,” Harry says, but doesn’t put up a fight when Mitch and Ryan each grab one of his arms and pull him into a dripping puddle onto the warm concrete.

“My heroes,” Harry sighs, rolling over onto his back and beaming up at them. The dress clings to his skin, the dip of his waist, the curves of his thighs. Jeffrey might be doing damage control, talking the few party guests into keeping their phones in their pockets rather than aimed at the pile of wet Harry.

Shaking his head, Mitch reaches down and wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist, pulling him to his feet. He wobbles a little, but either because he’s drunk, or probably because he’s Harry, he has no qualms about leaning heavily into Mitch’s side, soaking him through.

“Bed time for you, I think,” Mitch says, feeling weirdly maternal as he guides Harry up the stairs and into the house.

The party doesn’t miss them; music and laughter drifting inside until Mitch closes the door behind them. Harry turns to press his face into Mitch’s neck, arms wrapping around him in a damp hug.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into Mitch’s skin.

“No problem,” Mitch lies.

-

Harry’s young enough that hangovers don’t last all day, and by early afternoon he’s perked up enough to stomach a fruit salad. He eats with his fingers, juice dripping down his chin, and Mitch very carefully doesn’t make eye contact.

He recklessly doesn’t find another room to play in, but the melody he’s working on is for Harry’s song.

“I like that,” Harry says, humming along after he pops a chunk of pineapple into his mouth. “That’s good.”

He could be talking about the song or the fruit.

“Mmm,” he adds, smacking his lips. “Play that again.”

Taking the time to knot his hair at the back of his neck -- Harry prefers the ocean-scented breeze through the open windows to the A/C -- Mitch sets his fingers and plays it again. Harry’s voice is sleep-rusty as he sings along, and the sweat slicking Mitch’s palms is from the heat, nothing else.

-

“No, no, no, listen,” Harry says. “You don’t wanna hear, like, artists singing about all the amazing shit they get to do. You wanna hear about, like, the vulnerable bits, you know, like -- like the times when you were alone in that hotel room, because you chose to be alone.”

“Was that choice on _your_ part, though, or...”

Barking out a laugh, Harry says, “Shut up, Jeffrey. You know what I mean!”

“You want to be honest,” Mitch volunteers. He’s drinking OJ without vodka tonight, though he couldn’t say for sure what the rest of them have in their glasses. Somehow, the entire Jamaica crew has migrated to the dining table, where Harry’s holding court. He’s talking in circles, which isn’t unusual, but for once he seems to be aiming for a point. He just can’t quite seem to reach it.

Mitch clears his throat. “You want the song to be honest.”

“Yes -- that’s it! That’s it exactly.” Harry grins. “Mitch gets it. Why don’t the rest of you lot get it?”

Ryan makes the facial equivalent of an eye roll without actually rolling his eyes. “Because you’re always talking shit, H, and Mitch is the only one who can translate.”

“Mitch gets me,” Harry agrees. “We get each other.”

Mitch takes a large gulp of orange juice so that he does not have to contribute further to the conversation.

“Can Mitch explain why you want to sing about the time you cried while jerking off, though?” Hastily, Jeffrey adds, “Not that I would dream of infringing on your artistic integrity, H. I just want to be clear.”

Harry presses his lips together, but his cheek always dimples, just slightly, when he’s fighting a smile. “Mitch, tell them. Tell them why.”

Swallowing his OJ with a tight throat, Mitch has to cough a few times before he finds his voice. “Uh, you want to be honest?”

Harry snaps his fingers. “Bingo. I’m being _honest_ , Jeffrey. Honest.”

Knocking back the rest of his drink with a grimace -- definitely a screwdriver, then -- Alex says, “Honest. That’s one word for it, alright.”

“I’m going to fire all of you except for Mitch,” Harry tries to threaten, but he’s laughing too hard to get all the words out.

-

Time doesn’t feel real in Jamaica, but the days tick down all the same.

Two weeks before their scheduled flight home, Harry gives Mitch a handmade guitar. Mitch doesn’t know what to do with it, or with the camera that films the entire interaction. It seems surreal that anyone would want to watch this moment, other than Mitch’s mom, maybe.

Harry had once confessed to him that the biggest price he’d paid for this life was his privacy. They’d been on the villa’s private beach, skin sun-pink and streaked with sand, and Harry’s eyes were the same color as the clear water. “It’s better now,” Harry had said. “I’ve figured out how to keep what matters private, y’know?”

Mitch drew a line in the sand with his finger and watched as the approaching tide swallowed it.

-

Harry’s restless the rest of the day, even with the guitar Mitch gifted him in return to play, and he presses into Mitch’s space more than usual. He wants to watch a rom com in his room after dinner -- not an unusual occurrence; he’s made it through every Nicholas Sparks movie, and consequently so has Mitch -- and when he asks Mitch to come, Mitch doesn’t say no.

They settle onto Harry’s massive four post bed with Harry’s laptop on the sheets between them. Harry cues up the movie, biting his lip as his long fingers tap at the keyboard. He’s left the sliding doors open, and a warm breeze ghosts across Mitch’s skin, ruffles his hair.

Mitch doesn’t take in a second of the movie. He’s too distracted by the way Harry’s arm brushes against him every time he shifts, and the occasional snuffling noise as he breathes because Harry’s nose is always backed up.

It’s not the first time Mitch has stretched out in Harry’s bed, eyes glazed over as a movie plays on the computer screen. Not even the first time Harry has inched closer until he’s plastered all along Mitch’s side, his head tucked under Mitch’s chin despite the heat.

It is the first time Harry’s hand lands on Mitch’s stomach, creeping under his shirt to touch his skin.

Harry doesn’t say anything at first, just traces slow patterns over Mitch’s hips and belly, nudging the bottom of his shirt higher and higher to expose more skin to the breeze.

“S’hot,” he mumbles after a minute, dragging his hand away as he sits up long enough to pull his shirt over his head. He tosses it carelessly to the floor.

Then his fingers are back, tugging gently but insistently at Mitch’s shirt. Mitch doesn’t put up a fight, lets Harry pull at it until he gets it tangled up in Mitch’s arms. Harry huffs out this quiet laugh, and his eyes are too bright in the flickering light from the computer screen.

Batting his hands away, Mitch awkwardly pulls his shirt the rest of the way off, balling it up before dropping it onto the floor next to the bed. The breeze feels nice against his skin, the sheets soft as he settles back onto the bed.

“Better,” Harry says, curling into Mitch’s side again, one leg draped over Mitch’s. This time, they’re skin to skin, and it’s too warm where they’re pressed together, sweat already pricking. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, or mind, and his hand resumes its exploration of Mitch’s skin, tracing over his ribs, the line of hair leading down from his navel.

The movie is still playing, but Mitch doesn’t comprehend a word of it. He can’t focus on anything except the feeling of Harry’s hand and the way his warm breath puffs against Mitch’s sweat-damp collarbone.

Harry must not be paying attention to the movie either, because after a moment he whispers, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Mitch stares up at the ceiling, ignoring the way his breath hitches when Harry’s finger brushes against his nipple. “I’m thinking how crazy it is that I woke up this morning thinking I was late to work ‘cause sometimes I still dream I’m working in the pizza shop,” he says slowly, “but this feels even more unreal.” He’s not sure if he means the album, or Jamaica, or the hard line of Harry’s dick through his boxers, brushing against his hip as Harry shifts slightly.  

Harry laughs again, and Mitch’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. “I used to work in a bakery, you know. Before I was on X-Factor,” he says. He drags his fingertips down Mitch’s chest, tugging at his chest hair.

“Still dream about it?” Mitch asks in as calm a voice as he can manage.

“No,” Harry says, and then his mouth is closing over Mitch’s pulse point, sucking gently at the skin. Mitch doesn’t know what to do with his hands and settles for placing one on Harry’s head, fingers running through the soft strands. It’s still long enough to grip a good handful, and Harry hisses as Mitch tightens his hold, digging his teeth into Mitch’s skin. He shifts, damp skin sliding against Mitch’s easily, and then his mouth is inches from Mitch’s, breathing not quite ragged but no longer slow and easy. Mitch lets his hand drift down to cup Harry’s cheek, his barely-there whiskers tickling Mitch’s palm.

Harry hesitates, propping himself half over Mitch with one arm. He’s not laughing now, and Mitch can’t tear his eyes away from the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark pink of his mouth, the way he drags his tongue over his lips to wet them.

“Is this okay?” Harry whispers.

Mitch’s hand shakes as he draws it back, and he curls his fingers into a fist to keep from reaching for Harry again. There’s no way this ends well, and there’s no doubt it’s going to end. The return flight is already booked. Mitch is going to have his name in the credits when the album’s done. He doesn’t want to be a line in a song on the next one.

Shaking his head, Mitch says, “I need a cigarette.”

Harry sits back on his heels and watches silently as Mitch scrambles out of bed. He leaves his shirt on the floor, walking to the balcony in just his jeans. If Harry had gone for his zipper first, Mitch isn’t sure he would’ve stopped him.

Outside, the breeze is stronger, cooling his heated skin. Mitch pulls out a cigarette, slipping it between his lips as he searches for a lighter. The first inhale calms him almost immediately, and Mitch closes his eyes as he breathes out a stream of smoke.

He’s almost down to the filter when footsteps pad along the wooden floor and out the door. Harry hesitates only a moment, fingers tentatively brushing the small of Mitch’s back, and then he presses his cheek to Mitch’s shoulder, arms looped around Mitch’s middle.

It feels like an apology, though Harry doesn’t say a word. Or maybe he’s just not used to being left alone when the choice is someone else’s.  

-

Harry hits a writing slump with a week and half left in Jamaica. They need one more song to round out the album, but nothing’s working.

“I can’t write songs,” Harry whines half-jokingly, hiding his face behind his hand as he slumps on the couch. Mitch suspects the theatrics may be for the benefit of the rolling camera, but for the first time since they landed, there’s an unfamiliar uncurrent of stress groping at them.

It’s Ryan who suggests they all need a break, but “maybe don’t run off and film another movie, hey?”

“Fuck off,” Harry tells him, but he’s grinning when he heads into town with Jeff and his wife.

Mitch begs off, though Harry’s polite enough to invite him, and hauls himself down to the beach to watch the sunset instead, feeling stupidly like a protagonist in one of Harry’s rom coms. Still, the soft sand and gentle, rhythmic crash of waves has a calming effect, Mitch’s mind clearing and his gaze going unfocused as the reds and pinks and yellows blur together.

He goes to bed early on sheets that don’t smell like Harry’s cologne, and spends most of the night tossing and turning, waiting for the telltale footsteps of Harry returning to his own room next door.

They never come.

-

Harry’s already in the kitchen when Mitch pads downstairs the next morning, eyes puffy with lack of sleep and a Cheshire Cat grin pulling at his lips.

“Good night?” Mitch asks, frowning at the contents of the fridge. He picks up a carton of juice, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Yeah,” Harry says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “Ryan was right. That was _exactly_ what I needed.”

Mitch doesn’t say anything, pretending to be too busy pouring his juice.

-

Hours later, Harry’s got them all back in the studio, bubbling with excitement because his muse is finally back. The song comes together quickly, and it’s the missing piece they needed to round out the album.

Jeff Bhasker is ecstatic. Ryan and the rest of the crew are relieved. Mitch is quiet.

Harry’s insistent on sticking with the first draft of his lyrics, writing them out carefully by hand in his moleskine notebook.

Ryan shakes his head. “Does this girl know you’re writing a song about her?”

“Nope,” Harry says without looking up.

Jeff closes his eyes. “Just tell me you’re not gonna put her name in it. This is gonna be a PR nightmare.”

Harry just laughs.

Mitch keeps his head ducked, plucking out notes on his new guitar, fitting them to Harry’s melody. It’s a nice guitar. The track is going to sound amazing. Mitch wonders if she’ll know, when she hears it. He misses a note, grits his teeth and starts over.

It’s a fun song. Fun to write, fun to record, fun to sing; all of them crowded around a mic to record a chorus of _la la la’s_ that are definitely going to get stuck in Mitch’s head. The guys are dancing, swaying to the music, and Harry’s too busy enjoying the moment to notice the slump of Mitch’s shoulders beneath his thin cardigan.

When Harry starts bringing in pots and pans to drum on, though, deferring the actual drum kit to Mitch, Mitch can’t the smile that pulls at his lips. Not when Harry catches his eye across the room, grinning widely as he bangs on a stainless steel pot.

“Do you have the lid of the pot?” he asks Alex after they wrap up, Mitch’s hand stilling the cymbals. “I’m going to put it back in the kitchen.”

-

The last day in Jamaica, Harry drags Mitch down to the beach for the final time. They’ve done it all since they first arrived nearly two months ago; kayaking, snorkeling, what’s possibly the world’s worst attempt at surfing. This time, though, it’s just the two of them. No cameras, no surfboards, just Harry’s endless back as he wades further and further into the water, the droplets on his skin glistening in the sun.

“Kinda wish we could stay here forever,” Harry says, the words nearly drowned out by his splashing as he stares at the smudged horizon.

“Wouldn’t be as special then, would it?” Mitch points out, skimming his palm over the water’s warm surface. “Though honestly, I don’t know if I could ever get used to a place like this.”

Harry turns to him, eyes squinted in the bright light. He’s lost at least five pairs of sunglasses to the ocean already. Seems he finally learned his lesson.

“You’re going to be in the band, right?” he asks, pulling at his lip. “When we get back, I mean.”

Mitch isn’t going back to the pizza shop. Not after this. He’s already taken the plunge; now all that’s left is to see how far he’ll fall.

“‘Course, man. You know I’ll be there.”

Harry’s eyes drop to his mouth, just for a second, and with one last crinkly-eyed smile, he turns back towards the horizon. “Good,” he says, the breeze snatching at his voice. It’s hardly audible when he adds, “Need you there.”

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

-

The pace picks up the second the plane touches down back in California, and it doesn’t stop. There’re final touches on the album in the LA recording studio that started it all, rehearsals with the rest of Harry’s new band, meetings and fittings with stylists that leave Mitch winded, wondering how Harry managed to survive this world when he was just a teenager.

There are no visible cracks in the mask Harry slips on seamlessly when the promo starts. Mitch thought he knew Harry, thought he knew what made him tick, what made him frustrated, what made him laugh.

He doesn’t know this Harry. He’s still charming, still rambles too much, especially when he’s nervous, but he’s more guarded. Thoughtful. Careful in a way he never is around Mitch.

Harry loosens up a bit in New York, running wild backstage at Studio 8H with a giggling Jimmy Fallon in tow. Mitch wonders when he’s going to stop being surprised that this is his life now, and exchanges a look with Alex when Harry drags Jimmy over to meet the band.

“And this is Mitch,” Harry says, saving Mitch’s introduction for last. There’s an odd note of almost… pride in his voice. “He was working in a pizza shop,” Harry continues as Jimmy shakes his hand. “And he’s just, like, this monster on guitar. I’m so lucky to have him.”

“A pizza shop,” Jimmy repeats, clearly hanging on Harry’s every word.

Mitch’s face feels hot. “Um,” he says.

“It’s ironic, because I worked in a bakery,” Harry continues, his eyes actually sparkling. “Like, how perfect is that? We’re made for each other.”

“That’s not actually what irony is,” Mitch mumbles, because he doesn’t want to point out that there’s a big difference between working part-time in a bakery for pocket money while you’re in high school, and taking every shift you can pick up washing dishes at the pizzeria when you’re 26 and trying to make rent.

It doesn’t matter; Harry and Jimmy are already moving on, their laughter echoing down the hall.

Jamaica feels very far away, and not just in miles.

-

Harry tightens back up come Saturday night. In fact, he’s shitting bricks when it’s time to perform _Sign of the Times_ for the first time, his hands shaking as he holds the mic, his face shiny with sweat under the bright stage lights. Mitch doesn’t feel much like a pillar of calm himself. It’s fucking _SNL_ , and the band has been reminded too many times to count that it’s live live live, every missed note, every mistake aired to the entire nation.

Harry once complained about the pressure of writing the album. It feels like it’s all been condensed into this moment, but Harry’s shoulders don’t sag under the weight of it. He opens his mouth, and pours his heart out on stage.

After, Mitch barely remembers playing. The adrenaline rush hits him hard, and in the blink of an eye, he finds himself backstage with the rest of the band, peeling off their sweat-damp stage outfits, grinning with relief.

He doesn’t realize that he doesn’t expect Harry to join them until he bursts into the room, throwing himself bodily onto the couch next to Mitch even though he’s got his own, private dressing room separate from the band’s. He’s lost his tweed jacket somewhere and his white shirt is half unbuttoned, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The sour stench of nervous sweat cuts through his expensive cologne, but Mitch doesn’t push him away when Harry shoves his face into Mitch’s neck.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, sounding both giddy and strung out at the same time. Mitch can relate.

“I know,” he says, sweeping his hand up and down Harry’s back. His shirt is damp, and he burrows deeper into Mitch’s side, like he’d crawl under his skin if he could.

“There’s an afterparty,” Harry volunteers after what could be a few minutes, or maybe a lifetime. He sits up slowly, pushing his fingers through his hair to shove it back from his face like he didn’t chop it off over a year ago now. “With, like, the cast and crew and stuff. You should come.”

Mitch thinks about the drink he’d nurse all night while watching Harry and pretending he wasn’t.

“I’m beat,” he says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder to soften the words. “Probably just head back to the hotel.”

It’s a different hotel than Harry’s; doesn’t boast quite as many stars. It’s still nicer than the apartment he shared with Ryan.

Harry smiles at him. “Share a cab back?”

Swallowing thickly, Mitch drops his gaze to his Gucci loafers. It’s a hard concept to wrap his head around. “What about your party?”

Pushing to his feet, Harry grabs Mitch’s wrist, tugging at him. “Not that important.”

Mitch isn’t stupid enough to argue.

-

Harry’s hotel earned every one of its stars. They take turns in the massive shower, and Harry insists that Mitch go first. He tries not to linger, but the hot water loosens the knots in his shoulders, brings him back down to earth. The entire bathroom is steamed up by the time Mitch steps out of the shower, drying himself with a soft, fluffy towel before wrapping it securely around his hips.

He flips mindlessly through TV channels while Harry takes his turn, his wet hair dripping onto his bare shoulders. Harry’s suitcase is open, clothes strewn around it, and a quick search turns up one of Mitch’s shirts. He pulls it over his head, pointedly not thinking about how, or why, it ended up here, and helps himself to a pair of Harry’s sweatpants for good measure.

Harry doesn’t say anything about it when he pads out of the bathroom. He immediately pulls back the covers, climbing into the king-sized bed in just his towel.

“C’mon,” he says around a yawn, fidgeting until he’s got the pillow beneath his head adjusted just right. “Let’s watch a rom com like old times.”

“The only thing on this late is infomercials,” Mitch points out, but his feet carry him to the bed all the same. He settles onto the edge of the mattress, not quite willing to carve out a bigger space for himself.

“Order something, then,” Harry says with the offhand carelessness only the rich can afford.

Mitch picks the first movie in the rom com category without reading the title and Harry turns out the lights, plunging them into darkness save for the flickering blue light from the screen.

“C’mon,” Harry says again, even softer this time. When Mitch turns around, he’s patting the empty space next to him. He grins. “Promise not to bite.”

“Not a very compelling argument,” Mitch tells him, but crawls up the mattress all the same, settling far enough from Harry that another person or two could fit between them.

Harry immediately slides closer, tipping his head to rest on Mitch’s shoulder. His hair is cold and damp from his shower, and he smells like clean soap instead of expensive cologne. When Mitch wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders, he sighs and sags against Mitch like a contented cat.

They could be back on the beach, in their own little world, if not for the sounds of New York traffic filtering through the window Harry’s left cracked open.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks after a moment. He’s kept his wandering hands to himself this time, and Mitch is equal parts grateful and disappointed. One of them has to draw the line, and Mitch isn’t sure he’s up for it tonight. Not when he’s here in Harry’s hotel room because Harry chose him over everyone else.

“You,” Mitch answers honestly. He doesn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.

“Oh,” Harry says. The mattress creaks a little as he sits up, and Mitch’s eyes close as he brushes Mitch’s hair back from his face. “This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” he whispers.

“Probably,” Mitch agrees, but this time he doesn’t stop Harry when he leans down to slot their mouths together. Mitch kisses him back without hesitation, fingers digging into Harry’s bare skin. He suddenly wishes he’d gotten this out of his system in Jamaica, where the rules could bend without breaking. Harry’s mouth is hot and wet, and his hands are everywhere.

It feels more real now. It feels like something breakable. Mitch still doesn’t want it to stop.

Harry slides down Mitch’s body, dragging his sweatpants past his hips. He maintains eye contact as he wraps his lips around Mitch’s cock, taking him deep enough that he gags a little. When Mitch threads his fingers through Harry’s hair, trying to urge him up, Harry’s eyes slip shut. He groans around Mitch’s cock as Mitch tugs on his hair, and Mitch’s hips buck up helplessly, making Harry gag again.

“Shit shit shit,” he gasps.

Harry pulls off with a wet noise. “Don’t stop,” he says, voice a near rasp, and then he’s swallowing Mitch down again, eyes wet at the corners.

Mitch doesn’t last long, biting his fist to keep quiet as he spills down Harry’s throat, fingers still buried in Harry’s hair. Harry’s breathing hard when he crawls up the mattress, thighs spread as he straddles Mitch, his own hand wrapped around his dick.

“Fuck,” Mitch manages, rubbing his hand up one of Harry’s legs. “That was -- god, Harry. So good. You’re so good.”

Harry actually whimpers at that, hand pumping furiously, knees pressed to the sheets on either side of Mitch’s hips. “T-tell me,” he says, voice ragged. “Talk to me.”

Squeezing the meat of Harry’s thigh with one hand, Mitch pushes his sweaty hair back from his face with the other. “Your mouth,” he says, eyes flicking between Harry’s red, slick lips and the movement of his hand. “Feels so -- _fuck_ , Harry. You’re incredible. So fucking -- I don’t --”

“Tell me how good,” Harry nearly begs.

“You’re so good. You did so, so good. Perfect, H.”

Harry comes with a choked noise, flopping forward onto Mitch’s chest and breathing hotly against his neck. Mitch rubs his hand up and down Harry’s back until he stops trembling, his mouth pressed to Harry’s sweat damp crown. He eventually rolls over onto his side of the bed, arms and legs starfishing into Mitch’s space, his eyes closed.

It’s suddenly too quiet, but neither of them breaks the silence.

-

Later, when Harry’s snoring softly into his pillowcase, Mitch slips out of bed and stumbles in the dark until he finds his discarded jeans from earlier. His pack of cigarettes is in the pocket, and Mitch lets himself out the sliding door to the terrace, cigarette and lighter in hand.

The April breeze is sharp, and it takes Mitch a few tries to light up, palm cupped around the end of his cigarette. He leans back against the door, the glass cold against his shoulder blades, and fights a shiver.

He should get into a cab, go back to his own hotel. Redraw the line between them and learn how to tell Harry no.

Mitch inhales another lungful of smoke, and doesn’t move.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback/comments very appreciated! you can also come say hi on [tumblr](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
